


blood to blood

by humanveil



Series: The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: For Bellatrix, Andromeda’s status as a blood traitor is enough to act as if she never existed.It is not quite so easy for Narcissa.





	blood to blood

**i.**

Narcissa is thirteen when it happens. She is thirteen, and Bellatrix is at her side, and they both watch as Andromeda’s name is blasted off the family tapestry. They both see their mother shake her head, her mouth drawn to a thin line as their father murmurs the words to solidify Andromeda’s fate. They both hear their aunt mockingly ask how they could raise such a child. How they could _let_ her run off like that.

Narcissa is thirteen, and tears simmer behind her eyes, even if they don’t prickle anyone else’s. She is thirteen, and Andromeda’s name is burnt black. Andromeda, who had raised her more than anyone else in the room ever had. Andromeda, who she had been certain was always going to be there for her. Andromeda, who as far as everyone else is concerned, never existed at all.

Narcissa is thirteen, and Andromeda isn’t coming back.

***

Adjusting is difficult. At least, it is for Narcissa.

It seems easy for the others. Her parents act as if they’d only ever had two children, as if there’d never been a middle child. Andromeda’s room is locked up, her belongings put away, her photos taken down. All that remains is the memory of her.

Sometimes, Narcissa thinks she’s the only one who remembers.

Bellatrix refuses to talk of it. Narcissa’s attempts are deflected, with any mention of Andromeda met with sharp words and an order to _stop_. Narcissa doesn’t understand how she can be so quick to forget, how she doesn’t seem to care. It had always been the three of them, and now...

Narcissa isn’t quite sure how to mourn a person who never actually died.

 

**ii.**

Word of Andromeda’s pregnancy reaches the paper. Narcissa reads the article from the Slytherin table, a quick note on the birth of the child jammed in the corner on a back page of the Daily Prophet.

A baby girl, it says. A metamorphmagus, it says. A half-blooded Black, it says.

Narcissa writes a letter, and then throws it to the fire, the parchment and the words it holds dissolving to ash. And then she writes another, and it sits beneath her pillow, the words a well-kept secret. She doesn’t tell anyone, not Bellatrix, not Lucius, not Druella.    

The baby is more than a month old by the time she sends it, but send it she does.

She never receives a response.

***

She never receives a response, but Andromeda does read the letter.

The tapping of an owl’s beak against the window catches her attention, and it’s with a both surprise and dread that she recognises who the owl belongs to. Ted is away, and Nymphadora is asleep, and so Andromeda sits at the kitchen table, the thick parchment and the attached package in her hands, and she expects the worst.

What she gets is a kind letter of congratulations. The words are restrained and formal, as if Narcissa had wished to say something else but hadn’t been able to.

Andromeda reads it twice over, not believing her eyes. She opens the package next, and what she finds draws a quiet, shaky exhale from her.

There’s a blanket enclosed, the material softer than anything she’s ever felt before. Andromeda pulls it out with care, the cotton coloured a gentle, baby pink. Specks of glowing white decorate the fabric, the dots like illuminated fireflies.

It’s near identical to the one she’d gifted Narcissa, all those years ago. The one Narcissa had carried with her everywhere until their father had taken it from her at the age of four. The one she’d used to sleep with, every night, because it _kept the nightmares away, just like you said it would._

An inexplicable emotion crawls its way up Andromeda’s throat at the sight, and when she smiles, her hand hovering over the blanket with a barely-there touch, her eyes shine with tears that threaten to spill.

Andromeda doesn’t give Narcissa a response, but she does give Nymphadora the blanket, and her baby does cherish it just as Narcissa had cherished hers.

 

 

**iii.**

When Narcissa compiles the list of guests for her wedding, Andromeda’s name sits at the bottom. It lies there, the nine little letters almost mocking

It seems indecent, somehow, to invite her to the wedding. Narcissa knows of the original agreement, knows that Cygnus hadn’t promised Abraxas her hand for Lucius, but Andromeda’s. Knows that even if she and Lucius love each other in a way he and Andromeda never would have, there are some who still consider the wedding _wrong_.

And yet, Narcissa still wants her there, even now. Still wants her big sister to see what is meant to be one of the happiest moments of her life.

She sends the invitation impulsively, the act a split-second decision. Something she does before she can regret it.

She doesn’t expect a response, not really, but she gets one. It’s a short reply, scrawled on the back of the invitation. Andromeda tells her, quite simply, that she will have nothing to do with her so long as she insists on marrying _him._

Narcissa crumples the letter in her hand, swallowing down unwelcome emotion as it disintegrates in her palm.

It’s the first time they’ve spoken in years, and it will remain their last mutual interaction for many more.

 

 

**iv.**

Draco’s birth makes the paper, Narcissa knows, and yet she still sends the letter.

She does it in secret, her fingers fumbling as she ties the envelope to her owl. She can’t afford to be caught, knows both Bellatrix and Lucius would disapprove, and although she cares not for their approval in the matter, she doesn’t want to deal with their condemnation, either.  

The back of her hand trails over her owl’s feathers in a gentle touch. “Don’t wait for a response,” she says, because she already knows it won’t come.

***

The letter reaches Andromeda in the early morning, Narcissa’s owl tapping against the kitchen window as she makes a cup of tea. Ted looks up, eyebrow raised as he watches her take the letter with a sigh. He thinks many things about his wife’s interactions with her younger sister, but knows better than to voice any of them.

Andromeda takes a seat as she reads, her face blank. She already knows of the birth, of the pregnancy. The contents of the letter aren’t a surprise, however, the photograph that falls out is.

She picks it off the wooden tabletop, her touch gentle. It’s a beautiful photo, really. The focus is on Narcissa, on the little bundle that rests in her arms. Her hair lies in a messy braid, the loose strands of pale blond sticking to her sweaty forehead. She looks exhausted, definitely, but the expression on her face as she looks to her son is one of adoration, one of unadulterated happiness.

The look, Andromeda is surprised to discover, is mirrored on Lucius’ face. He’s only in the frame for a second, but she sees it. Sees the way he looks both at the baby and at Narcissa, sees his hand, gentle where it rests at the back of her neck, where it brushes the hair from her eyes.  

She’s not quite sure what to think.

“What’d they name him?” asks Ted, his voice hesitant. He’s watching her carefully from where he sits.

Andromeda lets the photo fall back to the table. “Draco,” she says, and it’s the last he ever hears on the matter.

 

 

**v.**

Narcissa eventually stops writing.

Bellatrix is in Azkaban, and Andromeda never responds, and Regulus and Sirius are both out of the picture, and Narcissa thinks, maybe, it’s best for her sanity if she considers herself an only child. If she thinks of herself as the sole Black heir.

But just because she stops writing doesn’t mean she stops caring.

She has never been one to forget family easily, has never been one to devalue blood. She keeps an eye out for familiar names in the paper, makes a habit of discreetly asking after Nymphadora every time Severus comes to visit.

“She hates being called that,” he’ll say, and Narcissa will smile wistfully, will think _just as Andy hated Andromeda_ , but she will know better than to say it.

It is by no means the situation she desires, but it is the one she gets, and so she makes the most of it.

 

 

**vi.**

Fives turns to four, turns to three, turns to two.

Bellatrix’s death doesn’t hit her quite as hard as she’d thought it would. It was inevitable, she supposes, with the way Bella was. Madness didn’t do much for the cause of mortality.

Still, she requests the body.

Lucius tells her not to, says there’s no point, but Narcissa ignores him. Bella was her sister, not his, and she will follow tradition where she can. Will lay her to rest with the rest of the Black family.

She doesn’t hold a funeral, knows, realistically, that to do so would be disastrous. Instead, she acquires Lucius’ help and puts the body in the designated grave, in the hole that lies next to Regulus’, next to the spot that would have been Sirius’. He leaves her once it’s done, lets her have a moment to herself.

She doesn’t mourn. Her chest swirls with an abundance of emotions, but grief is not one of them. A bitter sense of unfairness, maybe. A wistful desire for what could have been, definitely. The mixture is tied together by a faint sense of relief, a knowledge that now, at least, there could be peace.

Her hand touches the tombstone, its surface cold against her palm. She says nothing, just lets her hand rest there momentarily, lets the gesture convey her farewell.

“All the people that are dead,” says a voice from behind her, the words clear and loud in the open field, “and you’re upset over Bella.”

The sentence has barely finished before Narcissa turns, her face lined with disbelief. She knows that voice, had found comfort in that voice, and although she expects it, the sight of Andromeda standing amongst the graveyard, dressed as if she’d just come from a funeral of her own, is still a shock. She stares, takes in the sight of her.

She stills looks so much like Bella, Narcissa thinks. Still looks the same as the day she’d left.

“Who says I’m upset?” she answers eventually, and Andromeda steps closer, moves to stand next to her.  

“You asked for the body.”

“For the sake of tradition,” says Narcissa, and Andromeda breathes an ironic laugh.

“Tradition,” she repeats, looking at Bellatrix’s headstone. “How has that worked out for you?”

“Better than some.”

“Than most,” Andromeda corrects. She turns to her, then, looks at her properly for the first time in decades. “And the letters?” she asks softly. “They weren’t very traditional.”

Narcissa sighs, the sound lost in the wind. “Does it matter?” she asks. “You never answered.”

“There was nothing to say.”

“There was a lot you could have said,” Narcissa retorts, her tone tainted with fire, with anger, with a betrayal she’d buried long ago.

“There was no point,” Andromeda amends. “And if Lucius had of found out…”

“I am not a child,” Narcissa says. “Or his property. I can owl whoever I bloody well want to.”

She sees Andromeda’s mouth twitch from the corner of her eye, sees the hint of a wicked smile. A smile she’d missed.

“I’ve missed you,” Andromeda tells her, and the smile fades slowly. “I missed…” she cuts herself off, her head shaking as she looks at the long line of tombstones, at all the relatives they’ve both lost. “My daughter is dead,” Andromeda says, “and you’re all I’ve got left. I was hoping...”

Andromeda’s voice fades to nothing, but she doesn’t need to finish. Narcissa’s hand has already moved closer to hers, and she takes hold of it with a gentle grip, links their fingers together like she had as a child.

“Come,” Narcissa murmurs, turning to leave, and Andromeda walks with her. Walks away from Bellatrix’s grave, away from the familial burial ground.

Neither make any move to look back.


End file.
